


No Escape

by ChalkHillBlue



Category: Holby City
Genre: Character Death, F/F, Mourning, too soon probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 21:29:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9204041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChalkHillBlue/pseuds/ChalkHillBlue
Summary: Six weeks on from Elinor's death Bernie knows Serena needs something from her. If only she could work out what it is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. This story has parental bereavement and sort-of kind-of healing sex. It is probably the definition of Too Soon for this, but I'm processing through fic. Please don't read if you think it might upset you. The gist is that Bernie and Serena love each other a lot and I'm trying to find hope in the romance of that without losing sight of the awfulness of Serena's loss. You are absolutely welcome to yell at me if it's terrible.

Lately Serena's been looking at her in a different way, and Bernie is worried.

In truth, Bernie is worried all the time. For six weeks she's been nothing but worried. Except when she's been scared, angry, devastated, and helpless. She has watched Serena suffer. She has watched her silences. She has watched her don her armor - make-up, medicine, smiles that bear no relation to that beaming grin that first stole Bernie's own heart. She has watched her stumble and cry out from the pain of her wound and has been able to do nothing. 

But there's a new look in Serena's eyes. She looks like she's about to ask for something, and Bernie is worried because every time it seems she is about to speak she stops, turns away, changes the subject. Whatever it is, why can't Serena ask? Doesn't she know that Bernie would do anything,  _ anything _ if there was a chance it would take away even an ounce of Serena's pain? Even for just a second?

She worries that Serena needs her to guess. Perhaps she cannot ask for whatever it is she needs and is waiting for Bernie to offer. If so, then Bernie has failed again, she knows, because she has no idea what it might be that Serena wants. 

Ric told her to keep Serena going. See she eats. See she sleeps. Hold the reins until she's ready to take them herself. It seems so little. 

She'd gone to Ric in one of her moments of uncertainty precisely because she  _ cannot _ read Serena's mind. One morning when, eyes evasive with guilt, Serena had said she did not want to be alive in a world where Elinor wasn't. And Bernie hadn't been certain - not quite certain - how she meant it. If she was safe to leave on her own today.

(Ric had said it was okay. Bernie wasn't sure. Jason had said that Serena had promised to go for a walk with him on Sunday. Bernie  _ was  _ sure then, because Serena does not lie to Jason. And this is still Serena - battered and cowering but so beautifully honest and true.)

"Would you like some tea?" she asks. It's an offer she always made after dinner  _ before _ . And it's something they've heard a thousand times with accompanying grimaces of sympathy  _ since _ . Everything has two sides now. Nothing is safe. There's no point changing the words. 

"Yes, thank you. And Bernie?"

"Yes?"

"Will you… It's just… No milk in mine, please."

Bernie puts the kettle on.

\---

She is not even really sure these days where she lives. Is it that she stops by Serena's most nights before going home? Or does she live here now, and only retreat to the on-call room that is her flat in case what Serena needs is space? It's hard to tell.

Mostly she thinks she lives in the moments when Serena smiles without thinking. When her voice swoops or slides in the old familiar way over some unsolicited comment. (Last Wednesday Serena had lifted her head from its spot on Bernie's shoulder and said "Princess Margaret". It was a correct  _ Pointless  _ answer. Years from now she'll look askance at Bernie and ask if she has gone mad when Bernie automatically suggests it as a name for the boat they are thinking of buying as an occasional holiday home. Bernie won't be able to explain.) 

Tonight they sit side by side and sip their tea. Bernie is endlessly grateful for the warmth of Serena's arm pressed against her own. But is Serena warm enough? She hasn't lit the fire these past few days, but is it colder tonight? Should she get a blanket? She should check the thermostat, she thinks. Make sure the timer is set for the morning. She doesn't want Serena to wake up cold. 

She's so busy worrying about the heaters that she almost misses it when Serena finally voices the question.

"Bernie? Will you kiss me?"

\---

Bernie reacts automatically. Perhaps she ought to look for clarification, but it doesn't occur to her. They aren't like that. They have never been like that together.

Serena is gazing up at her with that new look in her eyes. She has asked for something and so Bernie gives it at once. She presses her mouth to Serena's.

It is not as though she has not kissed Serena since -  _ since _ . She's pressed kisses like offerings against her hair, her skin, her lips, whenever she thought Serena might want them. Or when her own heart hurts too much and she needs to be sure that Serena is still with her - warm and alive beside her in bed.

But this is different. Serena's lips part. Her hand creeps up to tangle in the hair at the base of Bernie's neck in the old way. She tilts her head. Sighs. Presses closer against Bernie's chest and deepens the kiss.

Bernie feels her heart speed up and the first flush of arousal spread through her body. From the first touch so many months ago Serena has always,  _ always _ been able to set her alight. To her credit (these things matter to Bernie) she has not thought consciously about how much she has missed sex with Serena. But she cannot deny that her body is flooded with a need like a long thirst the second she senses the intent in Serena's kiss.   

Bernie allows herself the luxury of kissing Serena's top lip one last stolen time just as she pulls away. Like she has always done, right from the start.

This time the double echo of how things were before and how they are now is helpful. She has always taken this moment to make eye-contact and check in with Serena between kisses and so - blissfully - it carries no heavy pall of the constant awareness of Serena's bereavement now. 

Serena's eyes are closed and she is trembling like she hasn't since their first night together. But she is smiling too. Her smile is strangely ethereal. Another new smile - Bernie thinks she could mark the stages of her endless descent further and further into love by Serena's changing smiles. The beaming grins that put sunsets to shame. Those brave, strange smiles that hold sorrow back at the corner of her mouth while trying to give others a solace that Serena cannot find for herself. And now this new one.

She presses her mouth to Serena's again, desperate to map the movement of her lips so that this smile, too, might be something shared.

"Bernie - will you? I need to ask you something - to talk to you about something - but I need. First. Will you take me to bed? Please?"

Bernie does.

\---

They make love gently. Serena gasps and sighs. At first Bernie holds herself back, tries to focus solely on caring for Serena, but quickly realises that that is not what she wants. Serena's touches are as insistent as Bernie's own and soon they are moving together in silent bliss.

They have not had time - not really - for their lovemaking to become familiar or practised. It is not a routine into which they can fall. But it has always been automatic between them in certain ways - they've always seemed to know instinctively how to ask, consent, and demur with the simplest of exploratory touches. Bernie had once wondered aloud if it was a surgeon thing - sensitive hands. No, Serena said. It was something else. She refused to clarify when Bernie pressed. "You'll just high-tail it to Svalbard," she'd said. 

The feeling of Serena in her arms and beneath her mouth is luscious. She has been walking through hell with Serena for so long, knowing that Serena is so much deeper in and that there is no way to get her out. But surely it's not wrong to think that this is a tiny taste of heaven? 

She slips her fingers inside Serena and whispers that she adores her. It still has the same effect - Serena cries out, nips at Bernie's neck, thrusts against her, holds her tighter. 

She reaches for Bernie as she comes and the combination of Serena's touch and the sight of her coming apart takes Bernie over the edge too. It's been like that before, once or twice. 

They lie entangled together regaining their breath. Bernie is more aware of Serena's breathing than her own.  As the rise and fall of her chest slows, Bernie feels the worry begin to prickle at the edges of her mind again. It's been waiting for them all the time, just above the bed sheets.  But Serena is smiling, and this one is a preciously familiar smile - soft and sated, a little bashful. So Bernie stands guard against the darkness for as long as she can. She smiles back and strokes Serena's arms for several long, wonderful minutes before she sees the smile falter and the sadness creep back into her eyes. Only then does she broach the subject so that Serena won't have to:

"What was it you wanted to talk about?"

\---

For a moment Serena says nothing. Then she sits up, drawing the top sheet with her. She pulls her knees up to her chest, back against the headboard, and gazes towards the bay window. They have not drawn the drapes and the stars are visible behind the perfect starched white lace of the net curtains. (Bernie briefly wonders if Serena has found time to clean them. If Jason has done it. Or if the house itself is so infused with Serena's spirit that it has put in its best effort to keep things beautiful for her.)

"Your divorce came through," Serena says at last. "Cam mentioned."

"Yes. That's right." Bernie cannot fathom where this is going. She'd gotten the final decree last week. They'd gone for a smoke together on the roof of the hospital - she and the legal evidence of her 25-year-long failed mission. Then she'd resolutely shoved it into the accordion file where she keeps all those bits of paper that one isn't meant to throw out if one is a citizen of civilised society. She's been trying to forget it's there.

"How are you feeling about it?"

Right now, what Bernie is feeling is nonplussed. They have just made passionate love and her body is still buzzing. The heavy shadow of Serena's grief is still with them, in temporary retreat but darkening the edges of her vision. Serena is looking at her with wide brown eyes and Bernie can't decipher what that means anymore.

"I haven't really thought about it," she says. It's an honest answer in its way.

Serena rolls her eyes - actually rolls her eyes at her - and Bernie thinks her heart might burst with home-sickness. 

"Are you happy? Sad? Relieved?" she prompts.

"Yup," Bernie nods. 

That earns her the smallest of chuckles.

"You know, when  _ my  _ divorce came through the first thing I thought was -" but here Serena breaks off. She cannot finish that story and Bernie knows it has been hijacked by a different memory. Of a girl who would have been about six, with a dimpled chin like her mother's.

Serena throws her head back. Growls in annoyance at herself. Bernie waits. 

"I do so want you to be happy, Bernie," Serena says at last. "You're free now. Or at least-"

"At least what?"

"At least, you  _ could  _ be free."

Bernie pulls herself up to sit beside Serena, as though by seeing the room from Serena's perspective she might somehow understand what on earth she's getting at.

"Serena?"

For a moment that pleading look is back in Serena's eyes and Bernie wonders if she wants to be kissed again. But then she stares studiously down at her own hands and begins to speak as though she's been rehearsing.

"Bernie, you spent so much time in a marriage that - well - that wasn't who you were, was it? That didn't give you room to be happy in the ways that you might have been. I know you don't talk about it -"

"No. You're right. It's true." Bernie thinks she would quite like this conversation to be over. Her marriage is. What's the relevance of it?

"But it's different now," Serena looks up at her and almost visibly lets go of the mental script. "You know who you are now, and your chi- other people know, and it's all right, isn't it? It's all out now."

"As out as can be," Bernie jokes a little awkwardly.

"You're very beautiful," Serena says suddenly.

It's a non-sequitur too far for Bernie who begins to worry that Serena may be losing her grip. 

"Serena, should I -?"

"You're beautiful," Serena presses on. "And brilliant, and generous, and kind, and you deserve to be happy, Bernie." She hesitates for a moment. "And you didn't sign up for this."

A rock falls into Bernie's stomach as she finally realises where this is going.

"You stayed in a marriage for duty," Serena presses on. "I couldn't bear-"

"This isn't a duty. My God, Serena, stop. Please stop."

Bernie flails out - her hand closes around Serena's wrist. It's all she can do to stop herself from pressing her other hand over Serena's mouth to put an end to the awful words.

They fall into an awkward silence. Bernie frantically searches her brain for any words at all that might make Serena understand. 

"I want to be here." She's scared it sounds like a lie. Because who could possibly want to be here? Nobody could ever wish for a nightmare like the one they've found themselves in. But what she means is that, for her, there is no wanting to be anywhere away from Serena. If she's sometimes desperate to run as far and as fast as she can it's always, now, an urge to do it with Serena in tow. 

In this terrible grief that claws at them both she sometimes feels more trapped than she has ever been in her life. It's worse than the lie she lived in her marriage. It's worse than the binding ties of her commission when her children were ill at home. It's worse than the straps holding her spine immobile when a broken neck threatened to lock her into her own body forever. But the tether that ties her to Serena is different. To break that now would be to break her own heart. Even she would never be so stupid as to try that again.

Serena doesn't say anything more, to Bernie's combined surprise and relief. She's looking at Bernie's hand on her wrist and when Bernie tugs gently she comes willingly and slips under the covers so they can lie together.

\---

Bernie feels as though she has run a marathon. Tomorrow, she thinks, she will need to call in the cavalry. Raf, perhaps. Or Ric. To be with Serena. To share gossip - to let her take an interest in them, pry into their lives, and forget her own for a few minutes. And Bernie herself will escape for a little while. Go running with Cam, perhaps, and feel guiltily, deliriously happy to be with him.

For now though she wraps her arms around the woman she loves and doesn't feel guilty at all about the happiness it brings her. A moment's relief can't be wrong. And if Serena is in an odd mood at least it's a communicative one. At least she seems to be relaxing a little under Bernie's touch. She's tracing her fingertips lightly over the scar on Bernie's chest, and Bernie remembers a time when the balance of their relationship tended to lie with Serena taking care of her. Perversely, she wishes it were that way again - for Serena's sake, not her own.

Now Serena is pressing hot, dry kisses against her neck and collar bones.

Warning bells go off in Bernie's head even as her body responds to the touch. 

"Serena, wait."

Serena pulls back. She does not raise her eyebrow but she looks, for a moment, as though she might and that is precious too.

"You don't have to do that for me," Bernie says. The thought that this might be an act of obligation, a payment of some kind thrills her with cold horror. 

"I'm not," Serena replies firmly. Then she clears her throat in that way that Bernie's only known her to do when she's feeling guilty - like she's dislodging some threat of dishonesty. "I did it for me, Bernie. I'm sorry."

This is rapidly becoming one of the most bewildering nights of Bernie's life.

"What on earth do you have to be sorry for?"

"The first time you kissed me you bowled me over," Serena says quietly. "Turned my world upside down, if I'm honest. And every time after when we're together it's been…"

She trails off but Bernie knows what she's getting at. Squeezes her hand in solidarity.

"I suppose I'd been hoping it might be enough to sweep me away again. Just for a bit. Just for a little while. I meant to talk to you first. About your divorce. About what you wanted from your future. About you leaving again - going somewhere better. I've been afraid that - well, in a way it's using you, isn't it? Not to have said. And you've been so..."

"Did it work? At all? For even a moment?" Bernie demands fiercely.

"Yes."

Bernie is filled with a desperate grateful tenderness for this woman who needs her and still tried to tell her to run and save herself. She doesn't have the words to explain herself - seldom does. And so she kisses Serena again and loses herself in the physical spark between them in the hope that Serena is feeling it too. It's not enough, but it's something. A miraculous scrap of something left intact after catastrophe.

\---

"I'm not going anywhere. We'll get through this together," she promises.

"This won't end," Serena warns. "It's always going to be with me now."

Bernie pulls her close, presses a kiss against her forehead and closes her eyes.

"I know, Serena. But so am I."


End file.
